


I Am, I Feel, I Do, I Love, I Speak, I See, I Understand

by TeaJay (LoreWren)



Category: Homestuck, Magic: The Gathering
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bloodplay, Crossover, Cult of Rakdos, F/M, Good BDSM Etiquette, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoreWren/pseuds/TeaJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't so much that trolls were <i>allowed</i> to worship Rakdos as that it was difficult to dissuade anyone who had already decided to worship <i>Rakdos</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am, I Feel, I Do, I Love, I Speak, I See, I Understand

**Author's Note:**

> I did not do the typing quirks. They're among Rakdos cultists; they speak as plainly as they can.

When she was young, the rust blood was always proud of her pigment. She could praise Rakdos and paint the red mask in her own blood, under her own power and from her own pleasure-pain. She gloried in that, that every part of the experience came from her, was her.

Now that she is older, she marks each partner and marks herself with them. Her mask fades from a deeper rust even than hers, through yellows, greens, to violets that shock conservatives into silence and a flash of fresh--always fresh--magenta that shocks everyone.

She likes this new one very much, the one who started by trying to convert her. When the others had left, she stayed, and when he raised his arms and spoke of love, she stepped right up and sliced into him, to see what color he bled.

She did her whole mask again that morning, in his rich, brilliant, _toxic_ red, with him gasping beneath her. ("Please, fuck, _please_." ) She loved it when she got to show them they liked pain.

He came back that evening, and he drew her into the circle of his arms. Her breathing went irregular and he took and took as she had taken from him, and she loved it. She had never met such a fast learner.

He stayed the night and she let him. She was starting to pity him, which was interesting. She pitied freely, as she hated freely, as she did everything freely, but she rarely found herself pitying so quickly. Judging from the looks he was getting, hate was by far more common, though it was proper hate, with the admiration woven in. And one of the people who had come with him had looked at him with a feeling that Damara had never known, which was a rarity. There were always new things, but a new relationship built on hate and pity that seemed to blend somehow, rather than vacillating...that was not the sort of new thing one saw every day.

In the morning, Damara woke with him by her side, and his lover beside him. Had she slept here to impress him, to protect him, to see new things? But then, Damara supposed, asking that as if there were a single answer was absurd, as she already knew.

Damara stretched, feeling bones click back into place and luxuriating in old and fresh bruises making their presence known. She nudged her partner awake, and his kissprit woke next to him.

They both wore small wounds, showing their bloods. It was interesting to see an olive blood with a rust blood, but then, he wasn't a rust blood, was he? And she was hardly one to complain about seeking pleasure in whatever form it took.

"You've shown me something I did not know," he said, gently. It took Damara a moment to realize that he was not speaking gently to soothe her, that this was just how he spoke when he had no reason to speak otherwise. "May I show you what I did know?"

And Damara thought, _Well, one new thing may lead to another_ , and she grinned and nodded.

He and his kissprit gave, freely and easily, as simply and obviously as breathing. They gave in body, which Damara understood, and they gave in something she did not, and she wept and gasped and broke more thoroughly than she had broken in years under their hands and their whispers.

They held her, and let her put herself back together, murmuring encouragements and helping as they could and never, never pressing.

When she was still again, she raised her hands to her face and wiped off her mask with her own tears, from their own knowledge-wonder-pleasure-pain. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"A great many places," said the olive blood.

"May I come with you?"

"We may not be coming back here," he said, still so gently, but with an honest warning.

"I know."

They looked at each other, and Damara knew she did not see a tenth of what passed between them.

"I am the Signless," he said.

"I'm the Disciple," she said.

Damara nodded. "I think I will leave my name here. I am..." Damara looked at the two of them, and thought what she would like to be. "The Handmaid," said the Handmaid.

They smiled, and squeezed her hands. "We should go. Anyone who is interested should be able to find us."

And, one last time, Damara laughed. "And you would not like the bored ones to find you."

The Disciple laughed along, and the Signless smiled. "It turned out well once," he said.

The Disciple smiled like sunlight after rain, and the Handmaid found herself just as happy to be there as they seemed to be to find her. She had no idea what was happening, and she kept finding new things.

Life was good.


End file.
